


*Beyonce voice* I'm feelin' myself...

by zahrawrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's 14 years old, Masturbation, Underage Masturbation, Young Dean Winchester, is that even a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zahrawrites/pseuds/zahrawrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://castielthehappybee.tumblr.com/">Julia</a> who requested: little Dean masturbating for the first time </p><p>As usual, constructive criticism and comments are always welcome.</p><p>Enjoy x</p>
            </blockquote>





	*Beyonce voice* I'm feelin' myself...

Before he’s even opened his eyes, Dean can feel the comforting heat of the morning sun pan across his skin, softly over his back and his sprawled legs. The blanket is pooled around his feet and the temperature in the room is too warm. He’s thankful for the window he’d cracked last night before bed because a gentle breeze walks over the sheen of sweat across his shoulder blades and the dip of his spine and the backs of his knees and the hollow of his throat. If he listens hard, he can hear the birds tweet a melody which, apparently, seems to be in tune to only _their_  ears. The faint smell of pancakes wafts its way into his room and he smiles.

Dean’s lying on his front, one arm tucked under his pillow with the other hanging off the bed, fingertips  _just_ brushing the carpeted floor as they twitch gently against the draught coming from under his bedroom door. He wants to shove his head back under the pillow but the insistent press of his morning wood has him groaning, voice sleep-rough, into the sheets. Without even thinking, he cants his hips down into the mattress.

The sound that escapes his mouth surprises him. It’s embarrassing enough to bring rise to a crimson heat that quickly works its way up his spine, into his collarbones, up the back of his neck, and into his cheeks.

“ _Fuck_.” he breathes, forehead pressed into his pillow as he pauses for a moment.

His parents had a meeting this morning and Sammy had a sleepover last night which means he’s home alone today.  A litany of sleep-slurred thoughts run through his mind but the nothing seems more important than the chant of  _release release release_. He relents to its call, rolling his hips down against the mattress again and sighs when he gets the friction he craves. It turns into a loud moan that sounds out of place in the silent room. It’s raw and broken - not deep enough to come from his fourteen year old body but desperate enough that it tapers off into a whine towards the end.

He’s never done this before, never touched himself  _this_  way, but it seems like there’s no time like the present to experiment and Dean’s always been a go-getter. Reaching into his bottom bedside drawer, he digs out a small bottle. It’s brightly coloured, sort of childish and as small as his palm. He rolls over languidly onto his back and lets the bottle fall to the sheets beside his hip while he runs a palm over the front of his boxers, cautious and testing. He squeezes there gently and finds that the pressure is just  _glorious_. Stuttering out a small gasp, his other hand runs up the slightly sweaty skin of his torso to brush across a nipple. He plays with it for a while, liking the way the bud come to life under the attention.

The room fills with gradually laboured breaths as he slips his hand impatiently under the band of his underwear. He starts by just  _feeling_ ; just touching and pressing and stroking. He pads around the tip curiously, smearing the liquid that beads there, and absently wonders what it would taste like coming from someone else’s kiss swollen lips. Then, he moves his hand to slide down his length slowly and torturously; there’s a slight redness to it, similar to the colour that burns his cheeks he’s sure, except for the purple-ish vein that runs prominently down the side. He fingers the vein all the way to the base before stroking up again, just enjoying the way it makes him feel.

 _Loved_ , he thinks. It makes him feel  _loved_.

The sunlight moves across his room, the rays streaking across his walls and the column of his neck as he arches. The golden tan of his skin is radiant in the light and it bathes him in an angelic glow while he leans up on one elbow to watch his hand go up and down leisurely. Sliding his left leg up, it bends at the knee and he lets it fall open as he pats around for the bottle. He drops back onto the bed and opens it with a quick  _snick_ , squirting the blue gel into the palm of his hand. Heating it takes far too long and it’s no way near as warm as it should be when he jerks his underwear down irritably to mid-thigh, thumb snagging on the elastic, to use it.

The first touch makes his chest flutter, makes him actually  _heave_  and he’s forced to slow down for a moment. He screws his eyes as his heart rate quickens, lips parting in surprise as he strokes over a particularly sensitive area.

_Oh…_

Fingering over the tip again, in his mind it’s all full lips, and bright eyes, and breathy moans, and soft hair, and  _please_ ’s, and  _ohgod_ ’s that play a part in the fantasy. He isn’t sure if he imagines girls or boys or anyone in between, but it’s hot and so  _good_  that soon enough his jaw’s gone slack and he’s fucking up into his fist and he’s so close,  _oh so close just a little bit more ohgodplease-_

And he tumbles right over the edge, just like that.

In the porn that he’s seen, the orgasm is always this hair-wrenching, white-knuckling, sheet-gripping experience, but he finds that this isn’t the case with him.

Dean  _knows_  his climax is coming,  _knows_  that he’s reaching an edge and he just… falls. Without a second thought, without doubt, without hesitance or patience or insecurity; he surrenders himself wholly to pure ecstasy.  

It should be embarrassing, how quickly he comes but none of that matters when he’s crying out “ _Fuck…_ ”. His spine arches completely, head presses back into the pillow, and his long taut line of his neck is on display for the world to see as his free hand fumbles in the sheets. He rides out his climax for as long as he can, accepting every quiver of muscle, and every explosion of fireworks behind his eyelids without question, and it’s just absolute fucking  _heaven_.

He struggles to catch his breath, struggles to swallow the dryness in his mouth as he comes down, stroking over himself a few more times until, eventually, he stills completely.

The house is quiet, no settling creak or leaky drip just… quiet. The silence surrounds him, cocoons him, and comforts him.

His sheets are a mess and he’s a wreck but he doesn’t care. He can’t deny the sated smile that pulls at his lips, can’t help but lie there and bite gently into his bottom lip while he opens his eyes slowly, careful as to not come out of his post-orgasmic haze  _just_  yet. The gentle breeze from the open window returns once more in an attempt to cool him off.  

Hooded, emerald eyes twinkle mischievously in the 9:17am sunlight, a satisfied smile sits on plush, red lips, and Dean thinks he  _really_  shouldn’t have waited so long to do that.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested, my Tumblr is [here](http://prettyboydean.tumblr.com)  
> Drop me a message, tell me what you thought - I'd really appreciate it :)


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